When you grow up deaf
When you grow up deaf there are so many things you don’t know.
The sound of rain on the roof.
The roar of waves as they crest, their agony as they crash.
The huffing sound of someone running behind you.
The scraping sound your nails make as you scratch your neck.
The brisk snapping of gum.
The clanking ring of an old rotary phone.
How hard typewriter keys slap the paper against the platen.
The crinkle of cellophane and the crunching of paper when you crush them in your hand.
The rattle of branches and the flapping of leaves when the wind comes up.
The gentle whisper of your own sigh.
When you grow up deaf you worry that you’ll never really know the world, that every moment your back is turned something irreplaceable will pass you by. When you close your eyes, silence.